Something Wicked

by David Roberts

  Before he could master the contents, he felt something cold and hard press against the back of his neck.

  ‘I shall take those, Lord Edward – if you please.’

  There was no mistaking Major Stille’s voice.

  ‘I might have guessed . . .’ Edward growled. ‘In fact, when I saw you talking to Guy Black, I knew you must be here for a reason. Are these papers his or his father’s?’

  For some reason he felt quite unafraid. He was standing on a slightly sloping lead roof with no guard rail of any kind. How easy it would be for him to slip and fall either on to the grass below or into the river. It flashed through his mind that he was completely at Stille’s mercy and he knew from past experience that the man had no mercy. Clearly, he had stumbled on a poste restante where one of Stille’s agents – probably Roderick Black – left messages and stolen papers for him to collect when it was convenient. Stille was a patriot of sorts, Edward supposed – a man who would do anything to get what he wanted. When his body was recovered, Edward told himself, Major Ferguson or Guy Liddell might suspect who was behind his death but why should Stille worry? His work in England was almost done and he would have no reason to care about his activities being investigated. With diplomatic immunity, the worst that could happen would be deportation. Perhaps, Edward thought, this was his last success – his final coup – and Stille would be as ruthless as his master, Heinrich Himmler, with anyone who got in his way.

  Edward glanced to either side and wondered if he could get behind one of the pillars, but that was quite absurd. They were slim and delicate. In any case, he could not move fast on the awkward little roof. He considered shouting but there was no one within earshot on the river – a situation which had delighted him just a few moments earlier. If he opened his mouth to shout, Stille would almost certainly shoot him. There was nothing he could do. He was trapped on a narrow ledge only accessible by a curved stone staircase which was difficult to negotiate at the best of times and he was alone with a man with a gun. He wanted to laugh.

  ‘Turn round very slowly, please, with your hands in the air.’

  Edward did as he was told. In one hand, he still held the papers he had taken from the cash box. Stille was smiling. He had obviously read Edward’s mind as clearly as if he had spoken and had watched him come to the only possible conclusion.

  ‘I’ve had just about enough of you, Lord Edward Corinth.’ The scorn in his voice chilled Edward’s blood. ‘You and your precious hure – your whore – have caused me some trouble. I admit it. I can now take my revenge. I am going to kill you but, before I do, I want you to know that she is dead. I want you to live long enough to grieve for your lady friend.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Edward managed.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Stille sneered. ‘I wonder if there will be anything of her left to bury?’ he asked meditatively, as though really wanting an answer.

  ‘What do you mean by that, blast you?’

  ‘Did she not tell you she was going up with Miss Stammers in her Tiger Moth? I see that she did not. Ah, well. There are worse ways to die. The instruments failed, the rudder jammed and . . .’ He made a movement with his left hand to suggest a plummeting plane.

  ‘I don’t believe you . . .’ Edward repeated but his voice faltered.

  ‘Do you want me to say it again? I would be delighted to. I have killed Fräulein Browne. She once made a fool of me in our own Embassy and then took it upon herself to seduce one of our best young men . . .’

  ‘If you mean Adam von Trott, he hates the Nazi Party and Hitler above all else.’

  ‘When I get back to Berlin the first thing I shall do is report on the activities of Herr von Trott. Thanks to our friend Kleist-Schmenzin, I have put together a very full report on the traitor. Von Trott and Kleist-Schmenzin will both be shot. We have too many traitors but then . . .’ he paused, ‘so do you. Now, hand me those papers.’

  Edward suddenly felt ice cool.

  ‘If you want these papers you’ll have to take them,’ he said in calm desperation. It was an idle threat and he knew it. If he was shot before he had time to toss them off the roof, Stille would have no difficulty picking them up. There was only a light breeze. He readied himself to die as Stille barked at him once again to hand over the papers. Edward saw his finger tighten round the trigger. He thrust the papers at him but, as the German made a grab at them, they fluttered over the balcony on to the grass where the breeze caught them and blew them towards the water.

  Cursing, Stille took his eyes off Edward for a second to see where they had landed. As he did so, Edward punched him hard in the face with one hand and knocked the gun out of his grasp with the other. It went sliding across the lead roof. Both men made a grab for it and missed. Edward saw it fall on to the balcony below. With a cry of anger, Stille lunged at his adversary but, as he caught him, he tripped over one of the lead ribs which cut across the roof. He fell, dragging Edward with him, and the two men ended up in an unscientific tangle on the very edge of the roof.

  Edward was the taller and stronger and clutched Stille in a stranglehold, his arm around his neck. Stille struck out in desperation. He had to collect his prize while there was still time, before the river reduced the papers to an unreadable mush. He kicked Edward hard in the knee and the pain made him cry out. He let go of Stille’s neck and held on to his knee in agony. As Edward released his hold, Stille got to his feet and made for the stone stairway. He ran down to the balcony and grabbed his gun. Uncertain whether to go back and finish Edward off or gather up the papers – some of which were starting to drift gently into the reeds – he chose his papers. Edward, he decided, could not go anywhere. He was crippled. He had no gun. He was trapped. He could wait.

  Once on the grass, Stille began gathering up everything within his reach. By now, at least half the papers were in the river but he stuffed a dozen sheets in his pockets before giving up the chase. He turned to look up at Edward, his face disfigured by rage and hatred. Now he would kill the man who had once again frustrated his plans and made a fool of him. By this time, Edward had hauled himself up but he was in considerable pain and could not put any weight on his injured leg. He listened as Stille began to climb back up the stone stairs. He looked round for a weapon. There was nothing. Leaning against the statue for support, he felt it tremble, as though it were alive. He looked down at its base and saw an empty space where the cash box had been concealed. A section had been dislodged, either by whoever had used it to hide the box or through natural wear and tear. It occurred to him that he might be able to block the entrance to the roof. He pushed harder and this time the statue definitely moved. Hearing Stille’s feet on the steps, he pushed again and felt the statue spin on its plinth. For a second it almost righted itself but, as Edward gave it another shove, it toppled to one side and crashed over, blocking the top of the staircase.

  For a few moments there was no sound other than the wind in the trees and the water lapping against the island. Edward hung on to a pillar and waited to see what Stille would do. At last, dragging himself over to the top of the steps, he saw blood and then, to his horror, what had been Stille’s head. By some extraordinary stroke of luck or fate, the statue had caught him just as he climbed the final steps on to the roof and smashed his skull like an eggshell. Edward made an effort to lift the statue but it was quite unmovable. Even if he had been able to put any weight on his leg, he could never have raised it.

  He sat down on the empty plinth and contemplated the havoc he had wreaked. His enemy, the man who had claimed to have killed Verity, was dead – that he could not regret. It had been a question of him or Stille. The German would never have let him leave the island alive. In the process, he had badly damaged an eighteenth-century statue which had stood guard over the island and the river for a century and a half. He wondered whether Henley would ever forgive him? But surely that was just it! Janus – protector of gates and passageways – had stood guard and, when his world had been threatened, had defend
ed it, taking revenge on England’s enemy.

  It was Guy Black who came to Edward’s rescue. He was sculling past the island – a gentle warm-up before his heat later that afternoon – when he heard and then saw Edward on the temple roof, shouting and waving. He sculled over and called up, ‘What’s the matter? Are you stuck or something? What are you doing up there, anyway?’

  ‘I’ll explain later, Guy. I’m afraid Major Stille has been killed. Could you call the police?’

  ‘Major Stille? My father will be glad to hear it. Did you kill him?’

  ‘In self-defence. Look, I can’t have a conversation with you in your boat and me stuck on this roof. Can you go back to the Stewards’ and get help?’

  ‘Of course. But what about you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Edward said grimly. ‘Just a dicky knee. Nothing serious but I can’t get down from here.’

  ‘Can’t I help?’

  ‘No, the statue has toppled over and blocked the staircase.’

  ‘Gosh, yes! I thought something looked different. I’ll go at once.’

  ‘Thanks. And tell Inspector Treacher to bring something to lift it, will you? It’s too heavy to move by hand.’

  ‘Right. I won’t be a jiffy.’

  Edward collapsed on the cold lead roof, utterly exhausted. With his head in his hands, he thought about Verity. How could he live if she were dead? Nothing in his life mattered if she were not there to share it with him. All he could do was wait and torture himself, as Stille had intended. Perched on the narrow lead platform, he grimly recalled St Simeon Stylites on his pillar and groaned aloud.

  12

  Early the next morning, Fenton drove Edward over to the clinic to see Verity. Now, more than ever, he hated not having her in his sight at all times. Dr Bladon was brisk with him, telling him to return at midday as she was still asleep. However, he agreed, rather reluctantly, that, if she felt up to it, Edward could take her to the last day of the regatta as long as she watched the races from a deck-chair in the Stewards’ Enclosure. She was on no account to be back late or he would never be trusted to take her out again, and with that Edward had to be satisfied.

  ‘So that’s about it, V. Guy says Stille was blackmailing his father and, when I saw them talking yesterday, he was warning him off.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Verity had not been allowed to go to Edward when she heard of his life and death struggle with Major Stille. She was made to rest and, as she put it, ‘guarded day and night’ to make sure she didn’t abscond. When he had at last been able to come to her, they had held each other tightly. In a typically English way, they had not said much – there was no need – though Edward had muttered in her ear that he loved her and, half-jokingly, that he would never let her out of his sight again. They had quickly turned to discussing Stille’s spy network as an easier topic of conversation and Edward noted with relief that, contrary to what he had expected, her experience in the Tiger Moth had left her stronger rather than weaker.

  Verity, still in her dressing-gown, was sitting on a bench in the garden where Edward was confident that no one could overhear them. His knee was strapped up and he had to hop around on crutches but, as he told her, he had got off very lightly. Thanks in part to the painkillers the doctor had given him but more to the knowledge that Verity had miraculously survived the attempt on her life, he was feeling calm, almost serene.

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘Stille’s dead and we have nothing to worry about any longer. I have hated and feared that man for so long, I can hardly take it in that he is no longer here to haunt us.’

  ‘But, with his last throw of the dice, he as near as damn it did for both of us.’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ she said, touching his hand. ‘What’s happening there now?’

  ‘On the island?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you might be under arrest or something. After all, you did kill a man.’

  ‘It’s all roped off. There’s nothing more the police can do for the moment. Stille’s body has been taken away. One good thing is the statue doesn’t seem to have been badly damaged. It’s tougher than it looks.’

  ‘I might say the same about you,’ Verity said, squeezing his arm.

  ‘Treacher has spoken to Pride and also to someone high up in the FO. They’ve still got a lot of questions to ask me but they don’t seem to doubt my version of events, which is comforting. For one thing they found Stille’s gun only had his fingerprints on it. And he also had some secret papers on him.’

  He could not tell Verity that Guy Liddell, the head of MI5, had taken a personal interest in Stille and would be in Henley the next day to catechize him but not, Edward got the feeling, to reprimand him.

  ‘Surely the German Embassy will have something to say about the violent death of one of their number?’

  ‘I doubt it, V. There’s a pile of evidence to prove that Stille was up to no good and, in any case, with the PM flying to Germany to see Hitler, the Embassy won’t want to rock the boat. Excuse my mixed metaphor!’

  ‘Do you think Roderick Black will be prosecuted? After all, he was passing secrets to the enemy. Don’t tell me! I can guess what will happen. It will all be covered up to avoid a scandal.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I doubt he will be charged with anything. As you say, they’ll want to hush the whole thing up.’

  ‘As usual,’ Verity added cynically. ‘To be honest, I’m quite relieved for Mary and Guy’s sake. And . . . well, Roderick Black may have used me but he was kind to me in his way.’

  ‘Let’s forget about it, shall we? I’m determined to enjoy the last day of the regatta tomorrow – if you’re feeling up to it.’

  ‘Surprisingly enough, I am. I don’t know why but I feel as though . . . what shall I say? As though my body was cleansed in that moment we hung in the air waiting to die. I don’t want to sound melodramatic but I feel renewed in some way. I hope it’s not all an illusion.’

  ‘You certainly look different. There’s a sparkle in your eye which I’ve been missing,’ Edward said, leaning over to kiss her.

  ‘Hey, watch it! I expect I’m still infectious.’

  ‘I don’t care. By the way, did you hear that Guy beat Habbits? I missed it, what with one thing and another, but I hear it was a near-run thing. It would be terrific if he could carry off the Diamonds tomorrow. He’s a fine boy. You know, V, he had persuaded his father to go to the police and I think he would have done if events hadn’t overtaken him.’

  ‘If I understand it right,’ Verity continued sceptically, ‘you’re suggesting that Roderick Black became so involved with Mosley and the BUF that he endangered his whole career. Was it really that serious? After all, many right-wing Conservatives have links to Mosley.’

  ‘This was more than “links”. Jack Amery went to Berlin to see Hitler and persuade him to fund the British Union of Fascists. Hitler agreed and Amery brought the money back in cash – or at least some of it. Amery knows he’s being watched by MI5 so he persuaded Black to take a pleasure cruise to his house complete with sick daughter . . .’

  ‘And naïve Communist journalist! What good cover,’ Verity interjected.

  ‘Black took the money and handed it over to Mosley at some convenient moment. If – when war breaks out – it emerged that Black had received money from Hitler, his political career would be at an end and he would probably end up in jug.’

  ‘So Stille used the threat of exposure to get Black to pass him secret papers?’ Verity still sounded dubious. ‘I feel there must have been more to it than that. I mean, would he allow himself to be so easily blackmailed? If he had gone to your friend Major Ferguson at Special Branch, I bet they would have given him carte blanche to do whatever Stille asked so long as he kept them informed.’

  ‘Well, you may be right.’ Edward sighed. ‘I’ve given up pretending I know all the answers. I sometimes think I don’t even know all the questions.’r />
  ‘So what next? Is this linked to the murders we’re investigating?’

  ‘I’m not quite certain, V. I rather think not.’

  ‘So we’ve still got work to do?’

  ‘Yes. I have an appointment with Miss Tiverton. I need to talk to her about General Lowther and then I’m going to see Chief Inspector Pride and Inspector Treacher. I want to be brought up to date with their investigations and I think they have a few questions to ask me. I’ll call in this evening and report.’

  Edward was touched that, even when she was still recovering from her brush with death and he was hobbling around on crutches, Verity thought of them as an investigative team. How inadequate, he thought. Why not leave it to the professionals? That was what he ought to do but a nagging demon was telling him that he could do better than the police – that he could see what they had missed. He was certain the solution to the murders lay in a Norfolk churchyard but how could he prove it? He touched his knee absent-mindedly and winced. He swore he would find out the truth before the pain went. Stille might be dead but an equally ruthless killer was still out there who, though he did not say as much to Verity, might be just as dangerous.

  An hour or so after Edward had left, Kay put her head round Verity’s door. Thoroughly chastened and far from her usual breezy self, she greeted Verity with a hug which almost squashed her. ‘Will you ever forgive me?’

  ‘Of course! I mean, what is there to forgive?’ Verity replied, gently disengaging herself. ‘It wasn’t your fault. In fact, it is I who should ask you to forgive me. According to Edward, Major Stille was out to kill me and you sort of got in the way. Do you know how he did it yet?’